


Bloody Mary (Suicide Squad)

by CyndaKiwi



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama and such, F/M, Multi, Reader-Insert, Suicide Squad, Tag As I Go, metahuman reader, more to come - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:53:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyndaKiwi/pseuds/CyndaKiwi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am very tired, very sick, and very obsessed with Suicide Squad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Mary (Suicide Squad)

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, I've got a sinus infection and I'm posting unedited garbage, but what else is new?
> 
> I've opened a Tumblr and soon a book on here dedicated to reader inserts featuring villains from many fandoms! They seriously need more love. Requests for the villains are open on the Tumblr blog cynda-writes-villains AND on the AO3 book for it (whenever I get it posted)
> 
> Trying to finish A Caged Bird without anyone hating me in the process. I am sick and tired of being sick and tired, but it gives me more time to write, so yay. 
> 
> I got a Tumblr buddy who reads over all my garbage before it's posted, so big thanks to Tastethewind for all your help!

The proposition of a team of inhuman criminals used to combat terrorists or whatever local disaster the world threw at them was ridiculous. No sane government official would let this type of thing pass, yet here she is, the devil herself. Amanda Waller had a binder full of secrets and monsters, but the last page of the pristine ledger seems out of place and crammed in there last minute. 

“The reports call her Bloody Mary. Real name is (Y/n) (L/n).”

///

You struggle to stand, shards of glass digging into your bare feet. Where were you now? New York? Arizona? China? The breeze was crisp, but not quite fall. Late summer? It's fairly dark outside, and the only sources of light are the few flickering overhead street lights. You can hear cars and horns, but they sound far away. You've gotta be in some sort of city, or nearby one. 

You squint through the darkness and scan your surroundings. Your hands still hurt, but it's a dull sting you're used to. How many died this time? Twenty? Forty?

You fall back onto your hands and knees. Broken shards of a mirror dig into your exposed flesh. You were in some shorts and a t-shirt. Not good for this weather. Not good for the chilling dread crawling down your spine. Not good. Not good at all.

The smell of the city mixed with the chaotic tornado in your mind. 

This has to stop. You don't even know whose blood you're covered in anymore. It's only a matter of time until you lose it completely. That is, if you haven't already.

A constant cycle of blood, mirrors, and screams. 

You stare down at the filthy concrete floor littered with mirror shards. Thousands of broken reflections of yourself stare back up at you. This is what you are. A broken monster. The mirrors embedded in your arms and hands and the blood staining your once-white clothes were all a ghastly reminder of what you did. What you do. What you are.

In the reflections of the glass, you see a blur of black drop in. 

You turn around, your eyes wide and glassy in the moonlight. At least now you know which city you're in.

You're frozen in place as Batman himself strode towards you. Tears slid down your face quietly. How long have you been crying?

Before he can get close, you flinch and stumble away from him. The scratching voices grate against your ears and scrape against the inside of your skull. 

“Please… No. Not again.” You whisper as you beg them to stop. They keep pushing and clawing at the confines of your mind. They want out, but you can't let them. 

No more hurting people.

They want out.

It's gone too far, and too many people have died.

They want out.

You force yourself to stay calm and keep your mouth shut. Nothing major will happen if you keep silent and don't utter the words they've been longing to hear.

They want out.

The jagged bits of glass and mirror begin to shake and hover off the ground around you.

They want out.

///

“So, she willingly surrendered?” One of the suited men asks as he leans forward a bit in interest.

“I said she didn't want to hurt anybody. Whatever crazy nonsense she's got rattling around in that head of hers is making her kill people, or so she says.” Amanda says with a slight eyebrow raise. She takes a sip from her tiny crystal glass and watches as the men frown slightly.

“What are her weaknesses?” A different man asks as he scans the file with your name and photo. You were partially covered in blood, but you look terrified.

“She doesn't like killing people or putting others in danger. She isn't afraid of dying, but she's scared of other people dying because of her. She's scared.” Amanda says to the men sitting around the table. They all wear varying expressions of confusion.

“So she's a good person?” One of the men asks in a confused tone.

“Heart of gold. And I intend to exploit it as much as possible.” She grins wide like the Cheshire Cat and knows that she's already played the game and won before it's even started.

///

You blink, shuddering out a cold breath of air as your straight jacket stretches and confines your movements. Third time this week. Has it been a week? No, it's been months since you surrendered. Four or five. Maybe six. It's definitely been awhile since they figured out some of your powers. 

Your cell was isolated. Everything in the concrete room was, well, concrete. No metal, no glass, and no mirrors. Anything that gave off a reflection was taken out of the room. A freak that used mirrors to attack people couldn't be trusted around anything moderately reflective. Even the straight jacket had some sort of non-reflective metal holding the straps in place. Paranoid, much?

You didn't exactly have any room to judge. You were paranoid, too. Even so, the lack of any reflective material on the guard's uniforms seemed a bit much.

The guards were afraid of you. It was odd, since most of them were at least twice your size or bigger. 

Every day, with five hour intervals, the guards rotated. It's how you kept track of time. The door would open, the alarm would briefly buzz, and the door would then shut. Every five hours.

The door alarm buzzes, cutting through the silence. Something's wrong. It's only been two hours and forty-five minutes.

You sit up and back into the corner of your cell until the plastic edges of your bed bump against your knees. 

A woman with dark hair, dark eyes, and a smug look strolls over to the door of your cell. A man, clearly military, follows close behind. You have no idea who either of these people are or what they want.

“She don't talk much.” One of the guards gestures vaguely to you as though you couldn't hear him. He begins to unlock your door. You panic and stumble backwards until you're curled up in the farthest corner of your bed. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

“Bloody Mary. It's good to finally meet you in person.” The woman says in a tone mixed with sarcasm and fake politeness. You don't trust this woman. She’s cold, like the room you’ve been stuck in for months.

“That's not my name.” You mumble quietly. Your voice is hoarse and weak, yet you still manage to get the words out. Your eyes don't meet hers, though. Instead, you've taken up to staring at the floor.

“Tell that to the 563 people you killed and all the others you hospitalized.” The woman suddenly snaps at you in a sharp tone. You flinch and stay quiet. The guards used that tone when they told you what to do. Just obey, and everything will be fine.

“What do you want?” You hate how your voice cracks in the middle, just like all the mirrors you've broken. Right down the middle.

“Show me what you can do.” The woman commands, pulling out a mirror small enough to fit in her pocket.

In just a matter of moments, all of the guns in the room are aimed at her. She doesn't seem bothered by it, but her friend is.

You start to panic as she holds out the mirror to you. It's been months since you've looked in a mirror. You don't want to break the streak now and have a full blown mental episode. Instead, you look around at the people, silently pleading for help. Nobody notices. The military man calls off the guards, who reluctantly lower their weapons.

The man glances at you and freezes. It's almost as if he recognizes you. You've never met him beforehand, so it only confuses you further.

“I can't. Not in a straight jacket, and not with a tiny mirror like that.” You hope she'll go away once you tell her you're useless, but that's asking for a bit much.

“Make do with what you have.” She tells you, holding out the mirror a little further.

The glass mirror cracks, then shatters in her hand. As soon as the mirror breaks, all the guards pull their guns on you.

In a flash, the military man moves to push the woman to the ground. Nome of the bullets land on any of their intended targets, though.

27 bullets cut through the air, but never hit their intended targets. 

Each bullet is suspended in midair, with more than a few mere inches away from the stranger's faces. The bullets seemed to be coated in glitter, which confuses the military man personally.

The woman reaches out and grabs one of the bullets with interest. It was only a few inches from her face, but she didn't seem bothered. In fact, she looked more smug than anything.

“Bring her to the observation room. I wanna see exactly what she’s capable of.” The woman smirks and holds up the bullet to the light. 

She glares at the guards when they hesitate. They're still afraid of you, and refuse to get anywhere near you. Not that you're complaining.

Instead, the woman’s guard(?) grabs your upper arm and leads you to follow the woman. He’s being awfully gentle with you. The very few times the guards have come into contact with you have always left bruises or scrapes. You are a criminal, after all.

“I don't know your names.” You mumble in a feeble attempt at a conversation.

“And you won’t need to, if you're as useless as you say you are.” The woman replies coldly. You decided to mentally label her Frosty. As cold and strong as ice. You respected it, though. It meant she wasn't weak.

The man holding your arm stays quiet throughout the walk. Just another toy soldier, you suppose. Frosty seemed to be his boss. She seemed to be everyone's boss, really.

Suddenly, you are brought to a halt in front of the entrance to a room. It's too dark to see anything inside.

Before you can ask or attempt to squint through the darkness, you're roughly shoved through the doorway before the steel panel slides shut behind you, leaving you bathed in darkness.

The floor is cold and smooth, but not beneath your feet. A strange hum flows through your bones as you walk around a bit. The sensation leaves you on edge. Something's wrong.

The room glows a faint crimson, giving you just enough light to see. 

All of the surfaces in the room are mirrors, but your reflection quickly goes black one by one in each mirror until the floor is the only remaining image of yourself. 

You hadn't looked in a mirror in months. Now you remembered why.

Your hair was unkempt and slightly filthy. Tired, yet frightened, (e/c) eyes stare back at you with a hollowness you've grown used to. You're paler from the lack of sunlight, and thinner than ever before. It didn't faze you at this point. Somewhere along the lines, you simply stopped caring.

The red light comes from the mirror below your feet and swirls near your reflection. A second face materializes from the darkness and grins up at you from where they stand. They're only inside the mirror, but you can already feel yourself begin to panic.

The pounding of your heart reverberates in the empty room as the glass walls bend and pulse with each heartbeat. No, no. You don't want this. You don't want to see her. You want her gone now.

A sickly pale hand touches the reflective surface from the other end. It cracks and sends a jagged line straight towards you. 

She keeps beating her hand on the surface in sync with your pounding heart, creating more cracks by the minute. Another hand appears to accompany the first as more of the disgustingly pale skin is revealed. The faint outline of a face appears. 

No.

No. 

No.

All the light vanishes as the earsplitting sound of the mirrors shattering crashes all around you and painfully rings through the room. Shards dig painfully into your bare hands and numbly registers in your mind. 

Light floods the room as someone runs towards you. You can barely hear them, and it isn't until now do you realize you're screaming. You stop, and your throat screams at you for being so stupid. Everything is screaming at you. 

Someone picks you up, sending the glass deeper. You don't care. You just want out of this room. The coppery smell of blood mixes with the scent of smoke hanging in the air and burns your lungs. What you wouldn’t give for some fresh air. To feel the breeze, see the sky, and hear the beautiful sounds of nature. No screaming, just birds and peace.

Words swirl through the air. They're sending you back to your cell. Nobody wants to get near you, meaning nobody wants to clean your wounds. That's okay. This is okay. Everything is okay. 

“-can't just leave her like this.” Like a camera, the world suddenly comes into focus in a sharp stab of sound and sight. Whoever is carrying you is speaking. You can feel their voice in their chest as they talk. Weird. You've never been this close to someone. The glass digs deeper with each footstep they take. They're still talking.

“None of the medics will get anywhere near her. She's dangerous, Flag. You saw what she did. Just leave her in her cell. She heals, just like everybody else.” Frosty’s voice bounces off the hallway walls and echoes in your head for a bit. If they leave you in your cell like this, then maybe you'll bleed to death. Dying sounds peaceful right now. Pleasant, even.

Whoever is carrying you goes quiet. What did Frosty call them? Flag? What a weird name. 

The sounds of a door opening in front of you echoes in the hall. The overhead lights are too bright and hurt your eyes. Just a few minutes with your eyes closed won’t kill anyone…

 

Bright white light illuminates the room and burns your retinas. You raise a hand to shield your eyes, but pull back in shock. Your hands… You can actually move them. There aren’t any constraints holding you back. The freedom is oddly terrifying.

Are you dead?

No, you realize you aren’t. The room comes into focus and you realize you’re back in your cell. You’re not in a straight jacket anymore, but your arms and hands are heavily bandaged. It’s been a long time since you had proper first aid. Most of the time, you end up wrapping old or torn clothes around your wounds until they eventually heal. It’s a miracle you haven’t died from an infection yet.

The slow sigh of another person brings your attention to the stranger in your cell. It’s the military man from before. His back is to you, and you can’t see what he’s doing.

“What happened?” You ask in a raspy voice. Why did your throat hurt so much? 

You… you were screaming. You remember now. The room of mirrors, the screaming, the blood. You should be dead. Who bandaged you up and why?

The military man pauses and turns slightly to look at you. An opened first aid kit was set in front of him on the table. Since when was there a table in here?

“You blacked out.” He tells you simply, picking up a bottle and some bandages from the kit. He walks towards you with both in hand, and you instinctively back up as far as the bed will allow.

“I need to change your bandages or you'll get an infection.” The strange man takes a seat on your bed and waits for you to move towards him. When you don't, he sighs and sets the supplies aside.

“I’m not gonna hurt you unless you give me a reason to.” He says with a slight frown and a sigh. With a bit of reluctance, you slowly scoot forward and hold out one of your arms.

“I’m (Y/n).” It feels odd to introduce yourself, especially under these circumstances. However, you'd rather have the man call you by your name rather than the grisly nickname everyone referred to you by.

“Rick Flag.” He grips your wrist tightly and begins to unwrap the tight gauze. His hands are calloused and rough from use, and grip hard enough to leave bruises. He doesn't trust you. Why should he?

You take this time to identify his features and try to learn anything you can from him without asking. His hair is neat and military, but his facial hair tells a different story. His eyes appear to be brown, though it's hard to tell since you don't like making eye contact for too long. He’s young, but the scars of war etched deep in his eyes and his face make him look infinitely older.

The shakiness that usually rears its ugly head after an encounter becomes apparent as his hands brush over your still open wounds. Cold fingertips tremble and you have to force yourself to stay still and not yank your hands from his. It's been far too long since you were in contact with another person in a nonviolent way, and you hoped to prolong the streak for as long as possible. 

Rick pauses, his grip slackening as he stares at you. There's a mix of sorrow and recognition burning deep in his eyes. It's such a startling contrast to the fear and hatred usually held in others that you freeze like a deer caught in the headlights.

His eyes snap back down to your arms and he continues his job as if nothing had happened. The way he uncomfortably clears his throat tells you to just move on from the odd encounter.

“So… You uh, you kill people with mirrors?” Rick asks nonchalantly as careful hands wrap clean bandages over the fresh wounds. You focus on how evenly and slowly the white covers up the red, as if nothing had happened.

“No. Not exactly. I mean, I don't kill anybody.” Sensing his confusion, you continue to explain in the calmest way possible.

“I uh, I trade places with the woman in the mirror. You probably heard the firsthand accounts of her. Red eyes, grey skin, looks like she's made of glass. Yeah, I trade places with her. Sort of.” Rick is still confused, and you kind of see why. It's difficult to explain the whole soul swapping deal to others. Hell, you barely understand it yourself.

“Think of it like this.” You take both of his hands and turn them palms-up.

“Here’s our world-” A brief touch to his right hand “-and here’s the mirrors.” Another gesture to the space between his hands before you pause.

“Think of the mirrors as windows to the other side of the glass. You can't see through them because your soul is still here. You don’t have a connection or a doorway to open, so everything just bounces back as a reflection. 

“Now, sometimes there are these tears or gaps where you'll catch glimpses of the other side. Just brief bits, usually just marked off as seeing things or going crazy.

“Where you see a window, I see a doorway. The other side is a bizarre nightmarish world, but I can enter and exit as I please. 

“Time isn't really there or here, either. I can spend an eternity wandering around in there, but ultimately I don't belong there and I must always come back. The gap where my body and soul were must be filled, so the minute I step through a doorway, I immediately come back in the eyes of a stranger. But for me, it can be a little longer, though it isn't recommended. I don't belong there, and I can't stay for longer than a few minutes max. Ultimately, I must always come back.” You explain, staring at his hands. Rick stays quiet for a few moments before staring at your two hands hovering over his.

“You said you trade places with someone.” He says, asking a question more so than making a statement.

“Yeah. You see, when I cross over, the space in the mirror world gets cramped. My presence takes up space, and the mirror world tries to push me back out. Kind of like a jigsaw puzzle piece that doesn't exactly fit right. While I take up too much space in one world, there's a hole left in another.

“Instead of doing things like that, I can balance things out by trading places with someone else in the mirror world. Mary, the one I trade places with, well her soul and mine are identical, and neither were created to stay in one side like your soul. Instead, our souls are more like a gray area where we can swap in order to maintain a balance. And uh, Mary isn't very nice when she crosses over. I mean, she's supposed to be the opposite of me, I think. So maybe that explains it. I don't know.” You confess with a sigh. 

Rick stares at you in utter silence with an unreadable expression. Did he think of you as some sort of dimension-hopping freak? A crazy liar with a made-up story used to excuse the inexcusable?

“Can you bring other people over to the other side? And how do you trade places?” Rick begins to change the wrappings on your other arm as he talks. His grip is far lighter this time, bordering on gentle. Perhaps he didn't see you as a threat anymore.

“While I can create doorways, it's possible for me to become a bridge of sorts. I can bring someone over, but it'll hurt a lot and I'll probably die or the universe will implode or something. I haven't really tried it.” You pause and think about how you'd do it. Certainly you could bring someone over to the other side, but should you? Hopefully you wouldn't ever have to.

“I guess trading places isn't the right word for it. Think of it like this: you soul is whole and undamaged, while also being permanently fixed here. My soul is broken up into tiny puzzle pieces. I can reach out through the doorways and windows to trade bits of my soul for Mary’s. The more bits I trade, the less control I have over her.

“I haven't actually traded places with her entirely. I don't want to find out what'll happen if I do. But what I do know is that splitting my soul across dimensions and mixing it with someone else's soul is agony.” Your eyes water slightly as you're reminded of the times your control was ripped from your body. Just as you could reach out to her, she could reach out to you. The result was a nightmare that left you torn to pieces and covered in somebody else's blood.

An unusual sensation interrupts your thoughts. Rick is running his thumbs across the back of your hands in an oddly soothing way. A deep look of understanding rests in his eyes, which comforts and confuses you. How the hell could he possibly understand?

Just as you open your mouth to ask Rick a question, the door opens. Rick immediately stands just as you pull away and shrink as far back as possible on the small bed again. This seemed like common practice now. Hide in fear whenever somebody got too close.

Frosty is back with company, and by company, you meant a ridiculous amount of guards. She glances between you and Rick with a smug smirk. Almost as if she knew something you didn't. 

“Come on, Flag. We have people to talk to. I’ll see you around, Mary.”


End file.
